Welcome to Playboy Undercover—where our anonymous columnists give you a peek of what’s really going on, well, under the covers. From the curious to the downright kinky, our guides are pulling back the curtains on desire. Wanna invite us undercover? So long as it’s between two (or more!) consenting adults, we’re game. Send your story to [email protected].

You would think that a dress code would be the last thing on everyone’s mind at a sex party. But when tickets to said party go for two grand, it stands to reason that the invitation would request black tie. So I arrived at the orgy dressed in a tuxedo I’d rented the day before. I walked past security into a mansion nestled into the Hollywood Hills and quickly realized my error: showing up on time to a social gathering in Los Angeles. It would take a while for things to get started.

The party is called SNCTM, and it’s explicitly modeled on Eyes Wide Shut. It’s one of several high-end parties in what’s called the play scene—organized, discreet orgies in L.A. and other cities. Every party has its claim to fame, but SNCTM’s is style, featuring theater, masks, and erotic performance.

“Ever since I saw the movie, I’ve dreamed of coming here,” said a middle-aged woman who had also arrived promptly at 10 p.m. She sipped her drink through a straw, her eyes barely meeting mine. This was the year, she said, that she’d finally worked up the nerve to get a ticket. She had no idea what was going to happen. I gave her the standard reassurance—you don’t have to do anything, make eye contact before approaching anyone—and she let out a sigh of relief. I left her at the bar and wandered outside.

The pool was lit up everywhere, with nude and seminude dancers and contortionists moving in impossible formations. More people trickled in. I caught the glance of an older woman—early 60s, extremely elegant in a black fitted gown. We were both alone, and she beckoned me over. Twenty years my senior has never really been my thing, but something told me I wouldn’t regret the conversation. I walked over, holding her gaze as it wandered up and down my body.

I introduced myself, and she offered two kisses—one on each cheek. I noticed her accent (Southern) and her ring finger (generously burdened). “What brings you here this evening?” I asked.

I was glad I did. She’d been married for decades, with kids and grandkids, until one of her children suddenly passed. Afterward, she grew distant from her husband. She figured it was grief until, after months of begging him to explain, he finally did. “If life is going to be this short, then I want to really live it,” he told her. He wanted to experience new things—and for him, that meant the fullness of his sexuality. They discussed whether it meant divorce and ultimately decided it didn’t. They would explore together. After the worst of the grief settled (if it ever really is?), they became something akin to sexual tourists. She has watched and sometimes participated as her husband has enjoyed the company of very beautiful, much younger women. She looks me dead in the eyes when she says it’s actually made her happy to see him experience something new again, and despite myself, I believe her.

“Tonight, though, he decided that the experiment is for me,” she said. I was tempted to accept. But right behind her, I saw my ex-girlfriend (let’s call her Lauren) step outside. A group of men paused their conversation to watch her, then sipped their drinks nearly in unison. I knew the feeling. “I hope you find what you’re looking for tonight,” I said and excused myself.

Lauren and I met in the play scene, and for a while, we tried making something of it. But for whatever reason—the freshness of my divorce, adjusting to life as a single father, or maybe the fact that we essentially met at an orgy—it never quite worked. But every time I see her walk into a room, I want to try again.

“Let’s explore,” she said.

There was a lot to see. An opera singer climbed octaves while shedding her clothes. A six-foot-tall naked person with a buzz cut rubbed a lifeless octopus all over themselves. The bathrooms grew busy with people tending to their noses. Around one in the morning, the artistry waned and the sex began.

Couples started peeling away to the bedrooms upstairs and the couches in the living room. Sex toys, lubricant, and condoms were placed everywhere. We passed two older men, still in their suits, bending two younger women over a couch. Around the corner, two women were having sex—ravenous and tender at once. Lauren caught my eye and smiled, then turned my head back to them. She got down on her knees, and I watched the two women while Lauren took me in her mouth.

We enjoyed this moment for a while, until Lauren looked up at me and smiled. “We’ve drawn a crowd,” she said. I laughed at my own hypnosis and helped her to her feet. A small group had gathered around us, smiling and touching one another. Exhibitionism had always been one of Lauren’s turn-ons—a key learning from our very first time together. Before long, her dress was off, revealing a black lace bra and matching thong. My clothes went next. The crowd stayed with us as she guided me to the stage where
the opera singer had performed earlier, and the room’s attention settled in as the music grew louder.

By the time we went upstairs, the bed was nearly full, which was saying something given its size. Lauren found us a place to settle in, and I laid her back so I could finally return the favor. I held her thighs and leaned in, pausing when she caught my eye and smiled. We were close—close enough to feel the momentum shift—when a woman leaned in to kiss Lauren, and she pulled back.

This was a clear no. It was also, briefly, a buzzkill. Consent is taken seriously at parties like
this (touching is asked for, not assumed), and Lauren hadn’t invited the interruption. I lifted my head as she gently pushed the woman away. “No thank you,” she said. “We’re playing just us tonight.” The woman nodded and moved on.

After that, we fucked for a while. I kept going until I had to pull back and wait, while Lauren enjoyed herself more than once. The crowd around us began to thin, but we stayed where we were, turned on by the room and the sounds of the people nearby. After we were both sufficiently sweaty, we consented to a water break. 

Both naked by the pool, we took in what was left of the party. The theatrical elements had begun to fade. We admitted that no one else there had managed to pull our attention away from each other. Whatever spell the night had been under felt broken. In another setting, there might have been other people we would have drifted toward, but that wasn’t happening tonight. “I’m glad you came,” I said and meant it.

So before the clock struck three, I called us a car and we made our way back to mine. We showered, had sex for another hour and a half, then showered again. The best part of the night, I realized, was actually going to breakfast with her in the morning. 

SNCTM was fun. I had quite the time. But there was something about it, maybe the production value, that required a belief in the performance of it all. And when we were performing—when I was getting blown onstage while a room full of people watched—we were having a blast. But when it came down to just having sex, without the performance around it, that’s when it started to feel less exciting. 

After hours at the sex party, where I was surrounded by naked strangers and Broadway-
level production value, I finally came. In my own bed, with my ex-girlfriend. It felt a little ironic. 

After breakfast, Lauren went home, and I wondered briefly if the past few years in the play scene had started to wear on me. But when I replayed the night, one image stayed with me. As we were leaving, a tall, slender lesbian dominatrix walked through the living room holding a leash, attached to a leather collar worn (at least for the evening) by the polite Southern woman I’d met earlier, naked and on all fours.
Despite the position she was in, she was smiling. Thinking back on that moment, I felt satisfied. Not for myself, but for her. At least one person’s fantasy had been fully realized that night.